


Setting Sail, Coming Home

by faeriesung



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriesung/pseuds/faeriesung
Summary: Setting sail from Flotsam, coming home to Corvo Bianco.A series of short pieces loosely based on the five stages of love: attraction, romance, passion, intimacy, commitment.





	1. Flotsam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ercasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/gifts).



Geralt was amused at Iorveth’s confidence in keeping a vulnerable point of his limb exposed. A small, clean scar ran next to the tip of Iorveth’s elbow - Geralt ran a fingertip over the scar as he folded Iorveth’s arms over his back.

Iorveth was barely tolerating him. Geralt could feel Iorveth’s instinct to fight back threatening to tear through. Being bound around the wrists wasn’t pleasant for Iorveth – he struggled against the bonds, hissed and threw back a shoulder that almost hit Geralt’s face. Geralt placed a palm on Iorveth’s shoulder blade to keep him still. The Witcher tried to remain as indifferent as possible to the Scoia’tael troop’s nocked arrows and hostile glares boring down at him.

Geralt tightened his grip gently around the taut muscles on Iorveth’s upper arm. He could feel Iorveth’s pulse, and the heat radiating from his exposed skin, even through his gloved hand. Somehow, the gesture seemed to calm them both.

For a short while, their breathing and footsteps fell in sync, echoing among the ancient Elven ruins. There was something within Iorveth that burned like a bright flame. Geralt couldn’t tell what it was, but he was being drawn to it like a man dying for lack of warmth.


	2. Prison Barge

“Iorveth,” Geralt said quietly, “I apologise for what I did at the ruins of Cáelmewedd. It was rude, but it was necessary.”

“I understand.” Iorveth’s head remained bowed. His voice was cold, but a small twitch of his fingertip belied him.

Iorveth stood slowly from the crate, the sharp blade he had been handling held at his side in his left hand, green eye piercing into Geralt’s amber. A deep red bruise sprawled like a spider on the good side of Iorveth’s face.

Unconsciously, Geralt lifted his hand to brush a thumb over the bruise on Iorveth’s face, ignoring the blade – probably Ciaran’s – in the Scoia’tael’s hand. Iorveth recoiled by instinct. Geralt’s fingertip barely touched his cheek - still, it tingled as if an electric charge passed through them. The atmosphere between them tensed immediately – the cabin’s walls seemed to close in on them claustrophobically – there was more that needed to be said, more that needed to be done.

“Get out.” Iorveth growled low in his throat.

Geralt wished he could offer some sort of condolences for the loss of Cedric and Ciaran in some way, but clearly, it wasn’t his place to.

Iorveth held Ciaran’s body close before letting the Scoia’tael take him away. His face was hidden by the bandana, but Geralt saw Iorveth kiss him – several times on both of his cheeks, once on his forehead, once on his chest, on the back of each of his hands, and his feet. He whispered for several seconds to the Scoia’tael who received the body and slipped away through the forest path.

There was nothing more Geralt could do nor say.


	3. Vergen

“Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth said, squinting to make out the figure sprawled on the stone roof of the small dwarven apartment. “What are you doing here?”

There was no hope for stargazing in Vergen tonight. The sky was covered by layers of slowly drifting grey clouds.

“Waiting for you to trip over me,” Geralt replied, “So that you might fall into my lap.”

Iorveth visibly stifled an urge to kick Geralt in the guts.

“Had to escape the smoke from the kitchen earlier.” Geralt explained, a little morosely.

“My unit is having supper,” Iorveth offered candidly, “Join us if you will.”

Geralt’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Iorveth paused for a second, expecting an answer.

“I’d be glad to,” Geralt replied, “Thank you.”

“Follow me then.”

 

The Scoia’tael had built a good fire for cooking. The food was very simple, and as usual, not so much to Geralt’s liking as far as Elven food went, but it settled his hunger. To Geralt’s surprise however, everyone seemed more or less relaxed around him. A few people came over to offer drinks – the dreaded herbal tea, apple cider and some watered-down wine.

After the food had gone around, the Scoia’tael unit gathered around the fire. More wood was added, and the fire rose as sparks flew. A petite and sharp-looking Elven woman stepped forward to make a short speech. She pulled a strip of embroidered silk that kept her hair back, sending her golden hair cascading down her shoulders and chest. Geralt blinked as her hair shimmered in the glow from the roaring fire.

“May our ancestors honour you, as you go where the apple trees bloom.” The woman chanted, as she placed her silk hair tie in the fire.

One by one, the Scoia’tael came forward to speak a eulogy for the fallen, each offering a personal token or a small wreath to be put in the fire. Most spoke briefly and to the point, some showed a little more emotion, some sang a short verse.

When Iorveth stepped forward, all grew quiet and sombre. A few warriors stood and went forward with him. Iorveth spoke quickly, with an unusual accent so that Geralt couldn't understand most of what was being said – a tribal dialect, Geralt surmised.

The audience echoed in solemn agreement. There was a long pause after Iorveth offered a wreath of leaves and berries to the fire.

A Scoia’tael woman came over to fill Geralt’s cup with liquor. As she did so, one of Iorveth’s warriors handed their commander a cup and proceeded to fill it. Iorveth raised his cup, all Scoia’tael around the fire held their cup, focusing on their commander intently.

“Some of you might know, I once spent several months in Drakenbourg.” Iorveth spoke, loudly and clearly in Common speech. “Ciaran aep Easnillien tended to my wounds after my time in Drakenbourg. If not for him I would not be here today.”

Iorveth turned his gaze to Geralt.

“Tonight, I would like to offer a toast of thanks for the Witcher Gwynbleidd for his help in not letting the barge take us to Drakenbourg again.” Iorveth nodded towards Geralt as he raised his cup. “To Geralt - iechyd da!”

“Iechyd da!” The Scoia’tael echoed, turning and raising their cups towards Geralt.

Geralt nodded quietly, unsure of how to appropriately handle the attention. Truth be told, he had never before experienced such camaraderie and sincerity.  

“Thank you,” The Witcher managed after a while, feeling as if he was uttering an entirely unknown speech from his tongue. “I am confident that you would have made it to Vergen without my help. Nonetheless, I appreciate your acknowledgement.”

Geralt thought he caught a smile ghost over Iorveth’s lips.

A drop of water fell into Geralt’s cup. The air smelled damp, and a storm soon descended upon them. The Scoia’tael hurried to retreat to their shelters and tents. Geralt found himself helping to gather miscellaneous things and bringing them towards Iorveth’s quarters.

 

“I could lend you a cloak.” Iorveth said with his back facing Geralt, flicking raindrops from his clothing and removing his muddied boots.

When there was no response from Geralt, Iorveth turned around.

“Otherwise, you are welcomed to shelter here until the rain ceases.” Iorveth said simply.

Geralt had already made himself comfortable on the deerskin in front of the fireplace. He had removed his outer clothing, leaving them to dry off on the back of a stool. He rested on his side, dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, supporting his chin with one hand, letting the fire warm his back.

“The rain,” Geralt said, holding Iorveth’s gaze. “Isn’t going to stop anytime soon.”

Geralt ran a hand from his raised knee to his inner thigh.

“No,” Iorveth lowered his eyelid. His voice was suddenly soft, and low. “It isn’t.”

Iorveth began shedding his armour and cloak as Geralt observed the lean and slender figure being revealed underneath leather and chainmail. Iorveth had on a linen tunic that hugged his chest, decorated at the collar with dark green embroidery, and plain green leggings. Slowly, he approached Geralt, lying down carefully next to him, facing him.

Geralt placed a hand on Iorveth’s hip. He could feel Iorveth’s pulse quicken and his breathing becoming shallow. Lights and shadows from the hearth fire danced upon Iorveth’s reserved, enigmatic expression.

Slowly, their faces shifted closer, and their lips met.

Iorveth’s hand made its way to the small of Geralt’s back, then slipped beneath the band of Geralt’s leggings. He made his intentions known. Geralt gasped. After a pause, he nodded for Iorveth to go on.

The scent of arousal soon enshrouded them. Geralt couldn’t recall the last time he had been on the receiving end of such affections. Iorveth realised Geralt’s inexperience quickly, taking great care to please his lover. He took his time, and Geralt let him. They held nothing back, drowning in newfound passion, as storm raged upon the dreary melancholy of Vergen and fire crackled in frustration next to them.


	4. Kaer Morhen

Geralt had never felt warm within the grey stone walls of Kaer Morhen. The wind and the rain seeped through every gap. The roofs were often leaking. They never had enough candles, nor did they have good enough wall hangings to keep the cold out.

Iorveth and his Scoia’tael Unit had set up camp the Scoia’tael way, within and around the premises of Kaer Morhen. He wasn’t entirely comfortable being thrown together with former foes, but each knew the other felt the same, so they kept to themselves.

Geralt had offered Iorveth private quarters, though the Scoia’tael commander remained elusive and was rarely present in the room, preferring to avoid crossing paths with the others.

 

“What news from the war table, Gwynbleidd?”

Geralt was relieved to find Iorveth in his quarters one late morning, after a tiresome meeting fraught with disagreements and apprehension.

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Geralt’s words came out a with a little too much agitation than he intended, “Don’t cut your hair!”

Geralt reached out to grasp Iorveth’s wrist, to stop him from raising the pair of scissors he was holding towards the locks of raven hair that had grown long enough to reach his shoulders.

“Sorry.” Geralt let go and took a step back.

Iorveth put down the scissors and turned his gaze towards Geralt, searching his face.

“Will you let me comb your hair?” Geralt finally asked.

“Go ahead then.” Iorveth replied quietly.

Geralt picked up the cherry wood comb on the table – it was very old and had a few of its teeth chipped. Geralt would have used the one he had, made of buffalo horn, but he didn’t have the comb with him.

Geralt slipped his fingertips across Iorveth’s temple, gathering a lock of his hair. He ran the comb through the soft, raven hair slowly and carefully, letting the comb’s teeth scrape the pad of his palm. A bronze mirror stood on the table – old and stained on the edges, not very well polished – among the long-forgotten inventory of Kaer Morhen. Iorveth’s reflection was a bit blurry on the mirror, but he wasn’t bothering to look at it. Geralt gathered Iorveth’s hair from either side of his forehead into one hand, then he pulled off the leather band that kept his own hair in a half ponytail to wind it around Iorveth’s hair.

When Iorveth looked in the mirror, he made an expression that absolutely reminded Geralt of young Ciri when he tried to do her hair.

“I know this is probably not up to your standards,” Geralt said, if a bit sheepishly. “But it’s the best I could manage.”

After all, even Ciri had made it clear that hair styling wasn’t exactly Geralt’s forte. A loose ponytail was the best he could do.

Iorveth laughed, into the mirror. Iorveth’s smile still looked somewhat like a grimace, but he had come a long way from when they first met. The gap in his teeth showed - Geralt knew Iorveth loathed that it did – and he didn’t want to see himself in the mirror. So Geralt bent down to kiss him.

“Sit down, Geralt. Let me braid your hair.” Iorveth said as he carded a hand through Geralt’s hair, caressing his scalp.

All matters of the impending battle left Geralt’s mind. Tired of the mirror, he cast a side glance at the window – a large, slanting crack in the stones crawled from the window frame to a corner of the wall, filled in with mortar.

“Did you know that I grew up in this place?” Geralt hummed, as he felt Iorveth’s fingers brush against the rim of his ear.

“It isn’t too shabby.” Iorveth replied softly, criss-crossing small locks of silver hair carefully, making the pattern fall neatly one after another.

“One time, I lured a royal griffin to the place and tried to set the beast to destroy the whole keep.” Geralt said, “I do not remember what spurred me.”

“Now, you will do anything to protect it.” Iorveth replied.

“No,” Geralt said firmly, “The walls will hold. It’s the people within that I care for.”

There was a meaningful pause. Iorveth placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, pressing gently to straighten Geralt’s back. Geralt felt Iorveth smile.

“Whenever I came home with my hair in a mess – caked in mud, have spider webs and bugs stuck in it, or hacked off in places…” Iorveth spoke, suddenly drenched in memory as he crossed the tapering strands of silver hair at the tail end of Geralt’s braid, “My Mother would sit me down, clean my hair, and braid them again.”

“She had to do this almost every evening. I would end up telling her almost everything. She would chide me, but the next day – we forgot about it.” Iorveth continued, “She never taught me how to fight, even though she was said to be an excellent warrior. That was… my regret for a time.”

“She has taught you well.” Geralt said earnestly.

“I have forgotten everything she has taught me.” Iorveth wound the hair tie around the end of the braid, straightening up the rest of Geralt’s hair with his fingers. “Except for this.”

Geralt desperately wished he could see Iorveth’s face in the mirror now. Iorveth held Geralt’s chin with the tip of one hand, and brushed a strand of silver hair gently behind his ear with the other. Geralt could feel his heartbeat pulsing heavily in his chest and his throat tighten. He drew in a long breath.

As soon as Iorveth let go, Geralt stood from the stiff, uncomfortable chair and turned around, grabbing Iorveth’s shoulders. Without warning nor hesitation, Geralt kissed him, lacing his fingers into his raven hair, loose and unbound. Iorveth returned the gesture. They kissed, as always, knowing that it could be their last moment together, knowing that they might not survive the battle in the coming days.

If Geralt was going to die at Kaer Morhen, he would die wearing these braids Iorveth had given him.


	5. Corvo Bianco

Iorveth looks better than ever. His hair, still raven, neatly braided behind the ears and at the back of his head, almost reaches his chest. He has dispensed with the bandana and wears a simple eyepatch to keep the scar clean. Sharp edges of his cheekbone and jaw have since rounded up. Dressed in a loose, silk taffeta robe in Elven style, there is a little more fat around Iorveth’s wrists, a little more ruddiness to his sun-kissed complexion, a little more ease to his voice and demeanour.

“Iorveth,” Geralt calls out to his guest, who is standing by the window of the villa, basking in the afternoon sun. “Come over and sit with me.”

They settle, close to and facing each other, along the edge of a round maple wood table.

“There is a letter for you.”

Iorveth looks up in surprise. He studies the wax seal for a second before breaking it carefully. A moment later, he folds the letter back, sets it on the table and looks away.

“Is everything alright?”

“It’s from Ciaran’s grandchild.” Iorveth says in a quiet, subdued tone.

“What does it say?” Geralt asks softly.

“He asks if I will visit.”

“Will you?”

“I swore never to set foot in Dol Blathanna after Findabair’s betrayal.” Iorveth speaks through gritted teeth.

“The child is young. The world isn’t any better for my people than when I was young like him, despite so much blood having been shed. What will I tell him?”

“To live the way he chooses.” Geralt says.

Iorveth doesn’t answer, and doesn’t look at Geralt.

 

The conflicts of the world are far from over. But at least, Geralt could say that his personal battles have come to a conclusion for now.

After the Wild Hunt and the Crones had been defeated, Ciri went her own way. Ciri no longer needed Geralt’s protection. When she spelled it out for him, Geralt felt at once proud, relieved, and momentarily lost.

Yennefer had wanted a child. Geralt never wanted one. A Father, a Mother, and a Child made a beautiful picture – but he never knew how to create something that he never had and never felt should exist in his life. He exchanged his soul for Yennefer’s life, and risked everything for the sake of Ciri – he gave them his time, his love and his life. They had set out to paint that picture, and they did, and gave everything to protect what they had. He cherished that image in his mind and he cherished the love they shared. It was all he could do. When it was done, he found that there was nowhere further for it to go.

 

Geralt focuses again on Iorveth’s face, still averted from him.

“Iorveth,” Geralt calls out gently, “If you need anything for travel, please feel free to arrange it with Barnabas.”

“I won’t go.” A trace of acrimony has crept its way back into Iorveth’s voice, “It’s good enough to know that Ciaran’s family is safe. They live in peace.”

Iorveth turns towards Geralt, with his head bowed, barely looking up at him. Geralt holds his gaze steadily.

“You deserve to live in peace most of all.” Geralt closes his palm firmly over the back Iorveth’s hand, “This is your home.”

Before Iorveth could run away from the overwhelming emotion, Geralt catches his face with a hand and plants a warm kiss on his lips, strong and heartfelt.

“I have something else for you.” Geralt says, grinning at Iorveth’s flustered, blushing face – the tips of his ears have turned pink and his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks. All traces of past memories have dispersed – as Iorveth returns a grateful smile, their faces glow together in the sunlight of a clear late afternoon.

“What is it?” Iorveth wonders as he pulls at the knot of the printed cloth that wraps around a rectangular box. “I hope these are sweets.”

Geralt smiles. Iorveth’s eye widen when he lifts the lid off the box.

“Genuine Elven craft.” Geralt explains, “I know you have been looking for one.”

“Thank you, Geralt.” Iorveth leans forward to kiss Geralt softly on the lips. His emerald eye shines when he puts his fingers in place and plays a series of notes on the rosewood flute.

Iorveth begins to play a familiar tune, one that Geralt heard years ago in the forest of Flotsam – it was the same tune that Geralt found Iorveth by, among the identical houses in the Bits of Novigrad.

Geralt begins humming along, with the few words that he remembers of the popular pilgrim’s song. Iorveth joins in with his voice in a complementary tone, forming a duet. Wherever Geralt doesn’t know the words, Iorveth fills them in – the lyrics quickly descend from decorous to naughty and absurd. The room is filled with laugher as they look into each other’s eyes, no longer concerned about anything that might have left a mark on their body or their memory.

Geralt takes Iorveth’s hand, tracing a thumb over his wrist.  As soon as they rise from their seats, Geralt draws Iorveth into his arms, holding him close and squeezing him tight. Iorveth chuckles breathlessly against Geralt’s neck. Gently, Iorveth cards a hand through Geralt’s hair, and runs a palm down his back, resting at his hip.

The sun is setting now, but there will be no need for candles.


End file.
